“Now I am losing no time in writing to say that you must pack up and come to me here, at once, and make this your home for as long as ever you like to make it so. I am getting an old man and am quite alone, so it may be dull for you, but at present, anyhow, a whiff of pure, fresh, country air, on top of that beastly London fog in winter, may well set you up after your illness. Although winter, you will enjoy it as a contrast to town smoke, I should think. So wire or write the train I shall expect you by at Clancehurst, and I will be there to meet you. There are reasons why I cannot leave home at present, so am unable to come up to town personally to fetch you, as I should otherwise have been glad to do.
“Believe me, my dear child,—
“Your affectionate uncle,—
“John Seward Mervyn.
“PS. Illness involves expense. You will accept a trifle towards such.”
Two five pound notes remained in the envelope. The long white fingers took them out, and even in the act the girl appreciated the delicacy which should have placed them there until the letter should first have been read. She handed the letter to Violet, while the tears began to well forth from her wearied blue eyes.
“Hurrah!” cried the latter, having read it. “This uncle of yours is a brick, Melian—a real hard, cemented brick.” Then growing serious. “Such a sweet letter too. There, I told you better times were coming, didn’t I?”
“You had no business to have written to him. I never told you you might,” was the weakly reproachful reply.
And then the two girls, the ill one and the well—the ill one because she was ill—the well one out of sympathy, had a good cry together, and there was much hugging and they were happy.